Chapter 9
Another day spent at Stoke Newington got Anderson no further. If Simanovicz were the one, he would never go to prison; though a secure hospital for the rest of his life was no picnic either. It would be an easy conviction and he would chalk up another success. Then everyone could go home and start living again. But it didn’t add up and it wasn’t because he didn’t want Clarissa to go home. He supposed that was what Comben thought: he was dragging his feet because of her.
Driving back home that evening Anderson picked at it but soon realised it wouldn’t work. There was something there but it was like a name that wouldn’t come to the surface. He would leave it a while to simmer peacefully. At home, a dry sherry settled him down but he was hungry and he couldn’t think before eating.
He took off his jacket and put on the plain blue apron he used always when in front of the stove. His refrigerator was well-stocked but it was one of the days he had chosen to eat vegetables only - for his health. So he peeled and chopped a variety of fresh and canned vegetables on the chopping board that fitted the drainer on his sink and added Quorn. Then he heated up some sesame oil in the wok that always hung to the left of the hob and added his ingredients. The cooking was over ten times quicker than the preparation. The eating was slower; he took his time with chopsticks and a bowl. Soon he felt capable of using his judgement sensibly but waited until he had cleaned up and loaded the dishwasher. Then he lay on his sofa and let his mind run over the whole thing.
Julian Simanovicz was guilty unless someone had set him up. His short stories and the murders that mimicked them could not be explained otherwise. And, if there was someone framing Julian, then it had to be Mark Turney. The problem was whether he could trust his judgement. He was sleeping with the man’s wife and that gave him an excellent reason for not liking the man. It gave him an even better reason for wanting him to be guilty. But where was the evidence?
He phoned Fielding at home; she might have something. The Simanovicz situation had allowed him to forget Fielding’s long shot but a bulls-eye on her part would come in handy right then. There was no answer and there was none from her mobile. Well, he could understand that. There were times when it was necessary to be unavailable and he hadn’t thought Fielding essential to the investigation. She wasn’t supposed to be on call. He could wait until morning but he needed to know what if anything she had found before taking the next step. Julian could not be kept isolated for much longer without being brought back to Kilburn.
Fielding had been offered drinks twice and she hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes but the drinks had a bill attached to them that she would prefer not to pay. The men didn’t mind; they found the next young female without jewellery and expensive watches — signals that they were not yet the property of a man as rich as themselves. It was the sort of commerce that Kevin had made clear happened at the Sporting Club and she was beginning to wonder whether all gambling clubs were the same. Men and women went to such places for reasons other than gambling and she was very definitely pleased that she was not in the market.
Fielding had felt herself dressed well enough. Not haute couture of course but her dress was a copy and not cheap and she couldn’t claim the price back off expenses. At first, she had wondered why she had looked like goods on sale, until she understood about the diamonds. The thought occurred to her that she ought to accept one of those drink invitations just to pay for the dress but then the thought of those flabby bodies and scented clothes – bedclothes – made her shudder.
She wandered around the tables. The professionals – both men and women – were easy to spot. They were always alert for the faintest sign that they had been noticed and they never gambled — with their own money that was. The real customers were in deep concentration. Little balls or cards it didn’t make much difference. Each table had a cluster of bulky men and scrawny women who threw chips worth hundreds on to the table with the same gusto as she had seen children buy ’instants‘. Many of the clients looked middle eastern and appeared to be throwing barrels of oil on to the table, so little did they seem to care when they lost. And then there was the evening-suited staff, who oversaw the tables and settled disputes or simply eased themselves around, trying not to get in the way of the customers throwing their money away.
It had been a successful evening. The manager quickly recognised Tony Adams from her description and she had another name: Toby Langdale. The management had not been pleased when he had disappeared with one of their best customers. His sort was an asset but not when their clients never came back. The staff was encouraged to speak to her about Tony or was it Toby. Not that it would help much. He would, she was sure, look different now and have a new name. Even the new blond hair would be brown or black or red and the English accent would be perfect.
But why had he left the scene? He had been a popular figure and his exploits had been part of the service. Young men were an attraction for the richer widows and Toby had been a big draw. The manager didn’t exactly say so but she gathered that for him, like herself, there had been no entrance fee. He had moved on and up from the pastures of the Sporting in Park Lane to the greener ones of Mayfair — a bit like Monopoly. But from here, there was nowhere else to go, so where did he go?
There was no point in talking to the customers, first she would have been thrown out and secondly no woman would want to speak about her gigolo. If she had been looking for a woman, it would have been different.
She could have left after an hour or so before, since she had got as much as she imagined she could. But it had taken a great deal of persuasion for the management to let her in and she didn’t want to waste the experience. She wouldn’t be back, so she would see how the rich played. It would be educational and the place was impressive. It was set in a nineteenth century mansion – chandeliers and all – the staff was in evening dress, the customers wore ties and the real clients had money — lots of it. Chips of various hues and sizes sloshed around the table with careless energy. Fielding couldn’t imagine she would see so much money change hands so rapidly ever again.
A tall figure caught her eye across the room. Young in his thirties but somehow not alert enough to be one of the professionals. There were young men with money who gambled but this one’s attention didn’t seem to be focussed on the cards. From the back, Fielding could see from the angle of his neck that his eyes were on the dealer more than the table, especially when she leant forwards and showed off a great deal of her assets. The players were too interested in the cards to notice her most of the time. Occasionally they deigned to look up but inevitably, they decided they were more hungry for cards than flesh and very quickly looked down again at the table.
She circled. Was it a jealous boyfriend? If this was so, she was surprised. She couldn’t imagine the management would allow anything to spoil the vicarious enjoyment of its clientele and pretty girls showing off their breasts seemed part of the package they were selling. She walked round the table behind the dealer to get a better look.
It was a surprise but Fielding kept calm. She didn’t want to blow Comben’s cover if he was on a job. He looked better dressed than usual. Fielding wondered whether he had hired the suit for the occasion. But what really interested her was the coincidence. She didn’t believe in coincidences; no police officer did. Unravelling coincidences was their job. Two colleagues who were on the same case, meeting in the same place, was a double coincidence. If he were working, it would explain how Clive got in. But it didn’t explain why he was looking at the girl so intensely. Was she that beautiful that he had forgotten his mission?
She walked back round the table to have a good look at her. Clive’s eyes never left the girl. Fielding wondered whether he was expecting a nipple or two to appear and hadn’t wanted to miss it. She was tall, two inches more than her own five foot eight. Very dark-haired, very good figure, very nimble hands but then that went with the job. Fielding took the photo out of her pocket just to make sure but it wasn’t necessary: the girl was Lesley Rathbone. She must have just come on duty since Fielding hadn’t seen her before.
She touched Clive’s back and he turned quickly. Then she walked away into a quiet corner and waited for him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘It’s a private matter,’ he answered.
‘Don’t you think it’s peculiar that we should both be here together?’
Comben nodded.
‘I’m looking for my man,’ she said.
‘The American.’
‘Yes, it looks as though this was one of his haunts. He picked up women for money.’
‘So you’re sure he exists?’
‘The staff is good at recognising their guests. They know who’s on the make and who’s there to play. My man stood out — Toby Langdale.’
Comben shook his head as if she had expected him to recognise the name.
‘You could ask your girlfriend.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘I don’t think you would be allowed to stare if she wasn’t.’
Comben stared at her for a few seconds before speaking. ‘Okay detective,’ he said, ‘I will but will you do me a favour?’
Fielding nodded.
‘Don’t tell Anderson I was here.’
Fielding lifted her head. She couldn’t do that if it was anything to do with the case. It was up to Comben to persuade her that it wasn’t. She looked at him quizzically and waited.
‘Felicity’s nothing to do with the case. She’s Amanda Clayden’s friend,’ he said nodding in the dealer’s direction.
‘Too many coincidences,’ she said, ’you can’t keep this a secret. Your friend’s real name is Lesley Rathbone. She’s the sister of Patricia who was murdered last year in Watford. My American might have killed her. Still, look at it this way, Anderson’s in no position to make a fuss.’
Comben looked at her. She smiled. ‘Clarissa Downing — I’d’ve thought he might go for someone younger; he always used to. He’s not quite the upright copper he pretends to be is he?’
‘Who else knows?’ asked Comben.
‘Just about the whole station I suppose. But that’s not going to help you,’ she said.
Comben nodded. She knew that he had got the point. Anderson had a reputation — he had proved himself, so a bit of scandal might wash off. But a new Detective Sergeant, well that was different. Was she worth it to him? Fielding wondered what conclusion the young man would come to.
‘So, what’s the story about Felicity?’
‘Well, there’s no proof but a number of people think my American murdered her sister. She’s probably down in London looking for him.’
They stood for a while and then Felicity was relieved from her duties and came across to them.
‘I’ve got half an hour break,’ she said, ‘Anthony, the assistant manager, says both of you might want to question me.’
Fielding was impressed. She was giving a very good show of not knowing Comben and in providing him with a respectable reason for being there.
‘I’ve been questioning everyone about a man,’ said Fielding. She reeled off the description and waited.
‘I’ve heard about him but I’ve only been working here six months. He was before my time.’
Fielding knew that. She said nothing.
Comben seemed surprised. ‘You’ve heard about him?’ he asked and raised his eyebrows Anderson fashion.
‘He was very successful. He pretended to have some sort of English pedigree but his clients didn’t seem to care about that. He never used his own money at the table.’
‘You know that?’ asked Fielding.
‘We girls have sharp eyes behind the tables. The women didn’t want to give him too much, he might walk off, so they tended to slip a few chips at a time into his hand.’
‘So, what made him retire. It sounded like he was quite a success,’ said Fielding.
‘Why don’t you talk to Gaby,’ Felicity said pointing at the woman who had relieved her. ‘She’s finished when I get back on.’
Felicity went to the rest room. Fielding admired the rear view and the slow languid walk. She didn’t imagine Clive would think twice about risking his career. ‘She’s very discreet,’ she said, ’you might get away with it but it’s a risk.’
Comben looked cross but said nothing.
Gaby came across when Felicity took over her position. The same slow walk — Fielding just knew they had been practising for hours.
‘You want to know about Toby,’ Gaby said, looking at Comben.
Fielding had spoken to her earlier and kept silent. She could see Clive trying very hard to keep his eyes on Gaby’s face. Truthfully, though, there was no competition between the two croupiers. Gaby’s was all uplift; Felicity had the real thing and plenty of it. A slight nod by Comben and Gaby was off — a real talker. Not that she had much to tell them that they wanted to know. Yes, he had been around for a few months and then he disappeared.
As she talked, Fielding wondered just what Gaby and the others were at the club for. Was it totally legitimate? She imagined it was against the rules but still a clever girl could make a great deal more than her salary after work — on her own time. Maybe she would say more if Comben were not around. It wasn’t simply the matter of gender; there was Felicity and loyalty, if she got Gaby away from under ’the boyfriend’s’ eyes, something might happen. She was pleased, very pleased, that she hadn’t gone home earlier. I’m going,’ she said to Comben, ’are you waiting for Felicity?’
Comben looked uncomfortable. Gaby was still standing with them and it looked as though he had wanted to pretend she didn’t know about his connection with Felicity. Well, it was too late now and Comben would have had to be a simpleton to believe it hadn’t been too late before. Didn’t they know that women talk? Fielding wondered just how much self-deception men could handle. She thought back to Anderson and his ’young-man’ suits — obviously a great deal.
‘No, I’ve found out all I needed. I’ll drive back now. I suppose you’ve got your own car?’
Fielding nodded and stood still waiting for him to go. Gaby stayed on. She was obviously enjoying the pantomime and Clive’s discomfort. Eventually Comben managed to drag himself away without even a glance in Felicity’s direction.
Fielding turned to Gaby and waited. Gaby fidgeted silently but Fielding knew something would emerge.
‘What?’ the girl said.
Fielding gave her a small prod, she was sure it wouldn’t need more. ‘There’s something more isn’t there?’ she asked. ‘Something you didn’t tell me earlier.’
Gaby looked around nervously towards the table Felicity was standing behind.
‘I shouldn’t really,’ she said, ’but you are the police and I don’t want to get in trouble.’
Fielding nodded encouragingly.
‘It’s about Felicity and Toby. She might have told you this anyway and it is true that she never saw him here but she does know what happened to him, because I told her. He married some rich author who doesn’t approve of gambling. But then I suppose he wasn’t here for that was he? She’s quite famous; her name’s Clarissa Downing.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘One of the punters told me. She was invited to the wedding. And what’s more Toby had changed his name to Mark.’
‘And you told Felicity all this.’
‘Oh yes, she knew all about the wedding.’
‘So when you discussed what to tell the police, you weren’t supposed to tell me this?’
‘Well, it was for Clive’s benefit. She didn’t want him to feel he was doing something wrong in dating her.’
‘So hiding evidence was supposed to make that better.’
Gaby smiled wryly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. I hope I don’t get into trouble.’
Fielding didn’t smile back. She wouldn’t be in trouble of course but she was damned if she’d tell the girl that. It looked as though Clive Comben was in deeper than he knew.